The Killing Season (28 page)

Slowly Nathan's eyes cleared as the fury subsided. It had taken Sheriff Ward and three other men to drag him off Duro Ellison, and even then they were too late. Paschal and Haynes Ellison had their hands on the butts of their pistols, but Sheriff Ward covered them with his Colt.

“I ain't sayin' the finish was what we expected,” Sheriff Ward was saying, “but it was a fair fight. Stone didn't do nothin' to Duro that Duro wouldn't of done to him. Does any of you dispute that?”

“No!” a multitude of voices shouted. The Ellisons—indi—vidually or as a trio—weren't popular, bullying others when they could get away with it.

“By God, we dispute that,” Paschal Ellison snarled. “You can't hide behind the law forever, Stone. You're a dead man.”

“When you're ready,” said Nathan, through clenched teeth.

“That's enough,” Sheriff Ward snapped. “You Ellisons take Duro and do with him what you will, and then I want you out of town. Move, damn it.”

They removed the dead Duro, casting murderous looks at Nathan. When they had gone, Nathan spoke.

“Sheriff, I need the loan of a spade.”

“I got one in the wagon,” a man said, “and you're welcome to it.”

Nathan followed him to his wagon, took the spade, and nodded his thanks. He then went to the old poplar where the blanket-wrapped Cotton Blossom lay. People watched him in sympathetic silence as he dug a grave. Finished, he tucked the blanket around the cold, stiffening body and laid it to rest. He filled the grave, mounding the dirt. In silence, he went to the man who had lent him the spade.

“Mucho gracias, amigo,
” he said.

Only then did King Fisher step forward. “Come on, Nathan, let's ride to the ranch.”

“It's well past time I was ridin' on, King. I'm obliged for your hospitality, and I'll see you when I ride this way again. Adios.”

He turned away, and King Fisher knew better than to follow. Nathan had brought the packhorse, leaving it and the grulla at the livery. He went there, paid his bill, saddled the grulla, loaded the packhorse, and rode north. But for the time Cotton Blossom had been shot and laid up in Colorado, the hound had been with Nathan for eight years, since that long ago day in Virginia, when he had headed west in search of the renegades who had murdered his family. Now he rode alone, his sorrow all but blinding him to the danger that lay ahead. A covey of birds swooped down toward a thicket and just as quickly flew away. He reined up and dismounted, still out of gun range.

“You in the thicket,” he said. “You have one chance to come out and stand on your hind legs like men, or I'm coming after you with a Winchester.”

“Come on, then, damn you. The Ellisons are ready.”

Taking his Winchester from the boot, Nathan circled around behind the stand of scrub oak, where it was less dense. There he bellied down, the Winchester in the crook of his arms, and began a slow advance. There was no avoiding the rattle of dry oak leaves, and it was what Nathan was counting on. He must make enough noise to draw fire, to play on the nerves of the pair who awaited him, because he didn't know where they were. His danger was great, and his first shot must count, for when he returned fire, he became a prime target for the second gunman. The first shot, when it came, burned a fiery path across his left arm, above the elbow, while the second clipped an oak limb just above his head. To his relief, the shots had come from ahead of him, and he returned the fire. There was a grunt, followed by a shout.

“Paschal, I'm hit.”

It was enough to rattle Paschal, and in his haste, his accuracy suffered. Two slugs kicked up leaves just inches ahead of Nathan, and he fired twice. There were no more shots, but he waited, lest one or both were playing possum, waiting for him to try and advance. Growing impatient, he got to his knees, and drawing no fire, stood up. The Ellisons had died with their guns in their hands, each of them having been hit once.

“Good luck with the buzzards and coyotes,” Nathan said aloud. Mounting the grulla, he took the lead rope of the packhorse and rode north. Reaching San Antonio, he left his horses at a livery and took a room at a hotel. How many times had he avoided the towns depending on Cotton Blossom to warn him of danger approaching their lonely camp? Now he was alone, and this first lonely night, he didn't
want
to be alone. After supper, he went to a saloon and did a thing he had never done before. He bought a bottle of Kentucky bourbon and returned to his hotel room. He leaned a ladder-back chair under the doorknob, and removing only his hat, gun belt, and boots, stretched out on the bed. Finally, he downed half the whiskey, coughing and wheezing until his eyes watered. If he slept at all, he would need help.

 

Nathan awoke with a pounding head to find the sun streaming in through the window. The events of the day before all seemed like a bad dream, but they quickly became reality. How many times had he awakened to find Cotton Blossom beside him on some lonely trail or lying beside the bed? Swallowing a lump in his throat, he sat up and took another pull from the whiskey bottle. Slowly he got to his feet, went to the dresser, and opened one of the drawers. Into it he dropped the rest of the bottle of whiskey and closed the drawer.

“Never again,” he said aloud. His left arm hurt, and he realized he had forgotten the lead that had creased him. Stripping off the shirt, he studied the angry red gash in which the blood had dried. He took a clean bandanna from his pocket. Going to the dresser, he took the whiskey from the drawer and used most of it to cleanse the wound, and the rest of it to soak the bandanna. Using his right hand and his teeth, he managed to bind the wound. He then put on his shirt, tugged on his boots, belted on his guns, and donned his hat. He needed hot, black coffee, and not until he had downed three cups of it did he even consider food. He then had breakfast and began to feel better. Having no business in San Antonio, he paid his livery bill, saddled the grulla, loaded the packhorse, and rode north. Briefly he considered returning to El Paso, but changed his mind. He had gunned down the son of the town's richest man, and that would take some time to blow over, if it ever did. Recalling what the ranger, Bodie West, had said, he set out for Austin.

“I'm glad you came by,” said Bodie, when Nathan entered the small office. “Sit down.”

Nathan sat, and from a desk drawer, the young ranger took a sealed brown envelope. He handed it to Nathan. His name had been written on it in pencil, and with hands not quite steady, he broke the seal. Within the envelope was a square of leather, folded in the middle. He opened it to reveal the famed star-in-a-circle silver shield of the Texas Rangers. There was nothing else.

“I was told that Captain Jennings sealed that for you the day before he died,” Bodie said. “The shield has a three on the back because he was the third man to join the rangers when they were organized in 1835. He had no family. It was his life.”

“My God,” said Nathan, “I can't believe it. I'll guard it with my life. But ... is it legal for me to have it?”

“It is,” West said. “I made sure of that. Headquarters knows what you did for the captain, and after wearing that shield for thirty-nine years, it was his privilege to do with it as he wished, and he wanted you to have it.”

“I really don't know what to say,” said Nathan, “except thanks. I consider it an honor to have known such a man.”

There seemed little more to be said, and Nathan prepared to leave. He had his hand on the doorknob when Bodie West spoke.

“One thing more, Stone. When you're in Texas and you need help, don't hesitate to call on the rangers. Tell them you knew Captain Jennings. They'll remember.”

Nathan rode north, his mind on the enormity of what he had just experienced. Having no particular destination in mind, he decided to ride to Fort Worth, to renew his friendship with Captain Ferguson. Reaching Waco, he quietly took a room there for the night. He wanted no repeat of his last time there, when he had been forced to kill a bushwhacker. The beard he had grown as a means of hiding his identity had begun to bother him, and he shaved it off. He would take his chances on being recognized.

“I'm sorry I had to be the bearer of bad news,” Captain Ferguson said. “I'm afraid the post surgeon had something to do with Captain Jennings's death. He felt it was his duty to tell the captain that he would never walk again, that there was no cure for the paralysis that had resulted from his being shot.”

“So Captain Jennings had no other way out,” said Nathan. “He willed himself to die.”

“That's what the doctor thinks,” Ferguson said, “but he had to be told.”

“I agree,” said Nathan. “There are worse things than dying. Like lying on your back, unable to get up.”

“It's good that you came this way,” Ferguson said. “A friend of yours is here. Knock on the door of cabin five, officers' quarters.”

Nathan knocked on the door, and when it was opened, found himself facing Byron Silver. With a grin, he seized Nathan's hand.

“Quick,” said Nathan, “let me in and close the door. Every time I get near you, I got hombres throwing lead at me.”

“Well, hell,” Silver said, “I tried to get you to come to work in Washington. You'll still have hombres throwing lead at you, but the pay's better. Where's Cotton Blossom?”

Nathan told his story and Silver shook his head.

“I reckon life's hell on the frontier for just about everybody,” said Silver. “It came as a shock. Captain Jennings cashing in. I'd have taken the time to come here, if I'd known he was that bad off. A damn shame, him dying with neither of us here.”

“We didn't know just how hard that hit him, being laid up and unable to move,” said Nathan. “I reckon he took what seemed to him the best way out. I tracked down Clint Barkley, the varmint that ambushed him.”

“He was buried with military honors,” Silver said. “By the way, I owe you one. I got off the train in Dodge the same day you scattered those wagonloads of Winchesters all over Kansas, Colorado, New Mexico, and Texas. Those gunrunners left Saint Louis sooner than we expected.”

“Sorry I spoiled your fun,” said Nathan, “but when that third wagon broke up, I saw the guns, and they wouldn't let me go. They aimed to kill me, and I decided not to hang around. It kind of took their minds off me, when the wagons blew.”

Silver laughed. “I daresay it did. Sheriff Harrington and me had just finished supper. He told me about some of the folks who have been gunning for you.”

“There have been a few misunderstandings,” Nathan said.

“I'm on three weeks' leave,” said Silver. “Why don't you spend a few days here and let the dust settle?”

“I believe I'd like that,” Nathan said.

Nathan remained at Fort Worth for most of the three weeks that Silver was there. The day before Silver was to leave for Washington, he spoke to Nathan about something that had been on his mind.

“Amigo, Sheriff Harrington in Dodge suggested something I believe you ought to consider. The AT and SF—the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe—is having a continuing battle with train robbers. They're wanting to hire a man to take charge of railroad security, and Sheriff Harrington told them about you.”

“I know,” Nathan said. “He mentioned it while I was there.”

“I believe you should consider it,” said Silver. “Each time there's a payroll, you would make the run from Kansas City to Pueblo, Colorado. You would receive room and board and five hundred dollars a month. By the time law and order comes to the frontier, you'll be a rich man, amigo.”

“I don't need the money,” Nathan replied, “and frankly, I don't care a damn about becoming a rich man. I don't know what I want.”

“Then maybe we should talk about something you
don't
want,” said Silver. “Does the name Bart Hankins mean anything to you?”

“Not particularly,” Nathan replied. “Should it?”

“That will be your decision,” said Silver. “What I am about to tell you is in strict confidence and off the record.
Comprende?”

“Si,”
Nathan replied.

“In 1867, in a little Missouri town, Hankins was shot to death during an aborted bank robbery by the James and Dalton gangs. The shot that killed Hankins spooked the robbers and they left the bank empty-handed. One of the gang was later captured and has sworn that none of the bandits killed Hankins. The Hankins family called in the Pinkertons, and it seems that, after checking army records, Hankins and six other men deserted.”